


Second Date

by sandpapersnowman



Category: Date or Die (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Coming Untouched, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6847111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandpapersnowman/pseuds/sandpapersnowman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sits up on your bed. “Just wanted to ask you a favor.”</p><p><i>God</i>.</p><p>“What?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguiniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguiniel/gifts).



> g o d i went to write down an outline and suddenly ive written 3k tonight
> 
> again, [Date or Die's demo](https://arden.itch.io/demo-or-die) is out!! play it!!!

The room you’re sleeping in for the duration of this hostage situation is okay. Plain, but not terrible.

Well, it’s terrible _now_. Your _host_ is laying on your bed like a lonely spouse.

“What the fuck.” It’s a question. You don’t even want to ask what he’s doing, because after less than 24 hours of his shit, you know whatever answer you get is just going to be a pain in your ass.

He smiles. God, you hate that smile more by the hour. You want to knock his teeth out. You want to take his knocked-out teeth and wear them on a bracelet. You want your hands around his throat again, with maybe a little less rushed threatening and a little more making him suffer.

You hate that smile. It makes you _want_.

“Hey,” he says, in that fake-charming voice. “Were you planning on going straight to sleep, or were you going to stab the shower to death first?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. That was a low blow. ‘Even for him’, you’d add, but all he deals are low blows.

“Hey, no judgement here.” He sits up on your bed. “Just wanted to ask you a favor.”

 _God_.

“What?” You keep your voice flat. You want him out of your room.

“Wait, actually, better idea,” he says, and scoots to sit on the edge of your bed, closer to where you’re still standing in front of the door.

“What’s that?”

“ _I_ have a favor I can do,” he purrs, and stands, “for _you_.”

You actually snort out loud.

“I doubt that,” you tell him. 

Maybe he’s going to drop dead. Let all of you go. Bring back your dead friend.

“I’m pretty sure I do!” He practically _sings_ it, and he’s stepping closer and closer to you. You’re tense, but you let him. You’ve got some height on him, you’re certainly heavier than him, and every step toward you is also a step toward your door.

“Try me,” you say, humoring him in the dryest voice you can manage.

He’s right in front of you now. You really don’t have _that_ much height on him, face to face like this, but you could still pin him if you needed to.

“I think we should have our second date,” he says, huskily, leaning up to you like he’s waiting for you to kiss him.

You shove him instead, to the side, and get between him and the rest of your room.

“Shouldn’t we have had our first date to have a second?”

You briefly wonder if this is some weird tactic to ask you out. Some pick-up line. _‘Yes, which is why we should go on our first one’_ or something like that. You’re sure it’s not the worst terrible line to cross his mind.

He laughs, and you remember what he means, because his voice is still rough. It doesn’t have that same porcelain quality to it as it did when you woke up here, because you practically had his vocal chords in a vise earlier that day.

“If you don’t count us pressed up against the wall and _writhing_ against each other,” he says, sounding as dramatically salacious as possible, “as _some_ kind of date, I’d _love_ to know what your idea of one is.”

“Take yourself on a date the hell out of my room.”

Not the best comeback, okay, yeah. He laughs again, so you grab him by the throat.

 _”I mean it”_ is what you mean to say, but the look on his face and the feeling that washes over you when you have his life in your hands make you realize what he meant about doing you a favor.

You scoff. His hands are still at his sides, and you think you can see his pupils blown behind his mask.

“What, this? _This_ is what you want from me?”

Now, his hands come up. This time they’re so gentle on your wrists, laying over them to ground himself, but it’s that same warmth. He’s smiling. Hopeful. _Desperately_ hopeful, like he’ll burst into tears if you make him leave after a taste of this.

You wonder if you could get him to take his gloves off. You probably could, if he’s about to risk his life again just to have a little bit of fun.

You wonder what else he’d do for you. Images flood in, of him on his knees, on his back in your bed, desperately rolling his hips up into your hand while you just sit there and let him do the work. You swallow. This could get out of hand. You think you understand why he was willing to come here, because whatever weird chemistry you two have, it’s definitely… Something.

You turn him around quickly enough that you’re almost worried for his neck. He seems to be fine with it, just making a restrained noise that still sounds like he’s desperate for it when his shoes scuff over your floor with you moving him.

You practically throw him down on the bed. You actually let go of his neck, and he gets half a breath of air in before he hits the mattress and it’s shoved out of him again as he bounces. It’s your turn to laugh now, because that minor inconvenience, that minor break in the feeling of losing your air, you know must be the _worst_ for him. He’s made it pretty clear that he’s desperate for anything. For _everything_.

He’s panting, and starts to straighten himself out on the bed when you stop him with your hands on his thighs.

“Shoes,” is all you say, because your voice is getting rough enough with excitement and arousal to match his. You hate that it’s getting to you, too, but it is. It’s such a power high bossing someone around like this, especially with the very real threat of one or both of you being killed by the other. Every move you make could be your last. You think there must be more adrenaline in your blood than red.

He kicks them off, obediently, and waits for you to let go of his legs before he moves. God. You’re sure he’s done this before, this kind of give and take.

You’re fine with that. It means he knows what you’re going to expect from him.

He starts shuffling up the bed again, like he’s fallen while being chased by some bloodied-up killer in a movie; he looks just as terrified, too, except for the manic smile pulled over his teeth. He hasn’t broken eye contact with you, like he thinks he isn’t allowed.

You follow him up the bed. You even give him time to take his jacket off, leaving him in just the black dress shirt and the bowtie.

You grab him by his bow to keep him still while you straddle him. You settle over everything between his upper thighs and the higher arches of his hips; you hadn’t realized how much smaller he truly is than you. You have to hike your skirt up some to be able to settle your ass down on his thighs, and if he were to look down, he could definitely see you through your underwear, but he’s so focused on what you’re about to do to him that he hasn’t even noticed.

His loss, really. You’ll probably get to see him more vulnerable than this soon, if he reacts at all like he did earlier.

He leans back like he’s trying to lay down under you, and you yank up on his bowtie. _Not yet_ is what it says. You feel his throat move against your knuckles as he swallows and stills again. _Good_.

You undo his bowtie--it’s a pain, actually, and takes some fumbling to figure out how to get it off--and even though you’re tempted to gag him, you just toss it onto the floor instead. That’ll hurt more, you think.

You grab his hair like he’d grabbed yours, and force him to straighten his head out so you can get a good look at him like this. He shuts his eyes. He’s a weird kind of tense; it’s an anxious, expecting tension, not a fearful one, but at the same time, he moves however you want him to, like he’s made of fluid. His hands are grabbing at your blanket, bunching it up in his fists so he’ll have something to hang on to for dear life when you finally give him what he wants.

He presses up into you when you tug on his hair a little more, just pushing his hips up because he can’t help it. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they’re fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt. He looks humiliated that he’s so impatient, but he’s not humiliated enough to wipe the awful grin off his face.

Boy, are you going to wipe that grin off.

Once you tear his mask off and toss it to the floor with his bowtie, you can’t take it any more. Your hands slide to his throat, and his breath hitches just from skin-to-skin contact.

The breath out he makes sounds like a “yeah”, a single, whined consonant that’s more out of relief than any conscious thought to voice how much he wants it.

“Why are you so _desperate_ for this?” you ask, and then, before he can answer, settle your fingers in a little harder so he can’t actually answer.

He opens his mouth to, and his tongue twitches forward, but he just goes back to the same blissed-out face as he’d had earlier; his mouth isn’t open as much as it had been, and his eyes are still mostly focused, but you know it won’t take long to get him to that again. Especially if he’s been thinking about this all day, actually, which he must have been if he’s this fucked up about it.

You give his throat a squeeze so hard that you actually worry about crushing his windpipe, but instead, his whole body jerks under you. You feel something under your palms that might be a moan, but if it was, it didn’t get very far.

You’re half-tempted to lean your weight onto his neck until it snaps. Kill him, leave him there, get the surviving ‘contestants’ out. You could. You’re pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stop you. You’ve already almost killed him today.

You mentally sigh, because _no_ , you couldn’t do that. You don’t know how the rings work, or what failsafes might be in place for if he’s killed. It’s too big of a risk.

You squeeze harder instead, and do put more weight into it. He doesn’t budge besides the general, overwhelmed squirming under you. You lean onto him harder, to see how he deals with his movement cut down.

He whines as much as he can when his squirming is reduced to his waist and his legs. He chokes trying to say something. ‘Please’, probably. Maybe just another whimper, or some other kind of ‘ _yes, yeah, thank you_ ’.

His hands release the blankets, and his knuckles are still white from it when they close around your wrists instead.

To your surprise, he’s not trying to take them off--he’s actually having you push harder, pulling your hands harder down onto his throat to the point that he can’t breathe at _all_.

His face is a pretty deep shade of purple when he jerks up against you hard enough that you nearly fall off his lap, and you’re about to tell him to stay still when you realize something’s different.

His eyes are completely shut, his whole body tense, and then, suddenly, he lets go of your hands.

You take them away, because there’s no _way_ what you think just happened just happened, and prop yourself up above him on your hands.

He’s gasping for air and half turned onto his side, and you feel his legs try to curl up under himself while he’s basking in it and holding onto it as long as he can.

God. He did. He totally did.

“ _Ha_ ” slips out, a disbelieving, power-high laugh as he’s still laying there and squirming under you.

 _Now_ he looks humiliated. Came without a _single touch_ , like some blocked-up, frustrated teenager. His face is still scrunched in pleasure from it, his teeth digging into his lip hard enough to turn it completely white, and he still hasn’t gone completely still; he’s shaking, and every other second or so, his whole body twitches with another aftershock.

You let yourself think it before he comes to his senses and can read it on you: you _love_ this. You could do this every night for the rest of your life and wouldn’t get tired of it. Pinning someone as obnoxious as him and putting him in his place, only for him to cum from it like you’ve been loving and sweet on him, _God_. 

You wonder what he’d do with your fingers in him. Your mouth on him, maybe. You can’t imagine what he’d do with your full attention on him, trying your hardest. Burst into flames, maybe.

How long has it been since he’s had a regular sexual partner? You assume planning all this shit kept him busy. Months? _Years_? God, it’s no wonder he jumped on the first opportunity he had. How _pathetic_ is this?

He finally makes a noise, a strained, rough groan that brings you back to the present. He’s got tears in his eyes, and you’ve never seen anyone look so fucked-out.

You sit back fully on your thighs again, no longer hovering directly above him while he cums for, like, a solid minute.

“Wow,” he croaks out eventually, cracking his eyes open. They still look blurry, and you’re shocked they’re not totally red from blood vessels breaking after all of that.

“Aren’t you something,” you say out loud, practically sounding _fond_.

He gives the weakest laugh you’ve ever heard, and turns his head back up at you again. He’s got that look again, that adoring, starstruck look.

You want to slap it off of him. Or kiss it off of him, with teeth and hair-pulling and layers and layers of bruises around his throat. Maybe cut it off his face, see how easy it is to look starstruck when all you’ve got is bloody bone showing.

“I was right about you,” he says.

Right. The… Situation.

“Good for you,” you say.

You finally get off of him. You stand by the bed and straighten yourself out while he still lays there, looking at you with that _look_ , and you’re just _seconds_ from physically carrying him out of your bed when he finally begins to sit up.

“Shall we shower together?” he asks, in the sweetest voice, and you laugh so loudly and harshly that you understand why people would call it a bark.

“Get out.”

He giggles. He wobbles when he stands, but manages to wobble out of your room anyway.

Once he’s out and surely away from the door, you lay back down on the bed and let out a breath you didn’t think you were holding.

In all honesty, you don’t know what the fuck that was. You don’t know if it’s happening again, or if it was some test you just passed or failed, or what.

What you _do_ know, however, is that… 

Well. 

If he has security cameras in the private rooms, you’re going to grab that footage before you get out of this place.

**Author's Note:**

> did you know you can find me on [tumblr](http://sandpapersnowman.tumblr.com/ao3direct)? : O


End file.
